


Joker and the Thief

by inoubliable



Category: 21 (2008), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Card Counting, Las Vegas, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles and his band of merry men go to college, get good grades, and somehow find time to count cards in Vegas casinos on the weekends.</p><p>--</p><p>To Derek Hale, they’re the worst of the worst.</p><p>Derek is the meanest pit boss in Vegas. He has arms muscled thick and a constant, brooding scowl. Rumor is he’s still bitter about the half a million dollars Kate Argent walked out with right under his nose.</p><p>Stiles wants to climb him like a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joker and the Thief

**Author's Note:**

> Very much based on the movie '21' inspired by the MIT Blackjack Team.
> 
> Title from the Wolfmother song of the same name that's playing in 'The Hangover' when Alan is playing Blackjack to win back the 80 grand, because that is the sort of thing I find funny and charming.
> 
> I don't know anything about card counting aside from a quick Google search. Don't try to shake down Vegas based on anything you've read here, because you will be caught.

_Winner, winner, chicken dinner._

He’s up two hundred grand, the table is hot, and Stiles feels _alive_.

There’s nothing better than this, he thinks. Lydia Martin’s blue-black wig gleams under casino lights, brushes his wrist as she leans in close. Says, “This place looks nicer than it did in the magazine, doesn’t it, honey?” in a voice pitched high, shrill like the jangle of the slots.

Seventeen Magazine. Plus 17. As if he lost count.

He wins again. Of course he does. Lydia shrieks, bounces in her seat, and if he enjoys that a little too much, well, he’ll smooth it over with a couple thousand. It’s Vegas, baby, and he’s invincible.

The dealer asks for his buy-in. It’s going on midnight. It’s late. He shouldn’t.

He pushes in a neat stack of chips.

Stiles learned early on it’s best to go out when he’s on top.

Thing is, he’s always on top.

\--

So, Blackjack.

It’s a simple enough concept. You play against the dealer. You’re given two cards. Closest to 21 wins. If you go over, you lose. If the dealer goes over, they lose.

(Stiles never loses.)

Counting cards is easy, if you’ve got the talent for it.

(Stiles does.)

Which, of course, is why he does it. He counts cards because he’s good at it. The money is nice, but it’s a close second to _this_ , this rush of power, this sweet-sugar warmth of being good _enough_.

Before this, before Stanford, before Lydia Martin and that up-to-no-good gleam in her eye, Stiles was never good enough.

But that’s what college is for, right? Finding yourself.

Some people find themselves at the bottom of a bottle or in some stranger’s bed.

And some wrap Vegas casinos around their little finger.

\--

Like a surprising percentage of bad things in Stiles’ life, Lydia Martin really is to blame.

She touches his arm one day after class and says, “ _Stiles_ ,” imploring and sweet and he’s _lost_ , okay, doesn’t stand a damn chance.

Honestly, he’s just lucky she doesn’t ask for more than simple math and a quick mind.

“Room 128,” she says. “Midnight.”

Sometimes, now, he thinks about how things might have been different, had he done the sane thing. Had he said _no_ , turned his back on the destruction Hurricane Lydia always left in her wake.

No casinos. No counting.

And no Derek Hale.

But that comes later.

\--

Midnight on campus outside of the dorms is a dark, quiet thing. The halls stretch for miles, echo his footsteps back at him, so hollow and yawning he holds his breath.

Lydia opens the door marked with a gold-plated ‘128’ when he knocks. “Hello, Stiles,” she says almost-warmly, and follows it up to the room at large with, “He’s the best I could do on such short notice,” before he can get his hopes up.

Stiles is surprised to find he recognizes someone besides Lydia. Her name is Allison Argent. She sits in front of his 9 AM Nonlinear Equations class—takes notes the whole time, which he only knows because Scott pointed her out the first day and hasn’t stopped staring since.

She says, “Hi, Stiles,” which is weird, because as far as he knows she’s never noticed him before.

This is the kind of surreal shit that knowing Lydia Martin does to you.

He vaguely recognizes Jackson Whittemore, captain of all things athletic and a biochemistry major to boot, and has never seen the boy that introduces himself as Danny Mahealani. He says he’s majoring in chemical engineering, which doesn’t surprise Stiles as much as it should.

“What is this?” Stiles asks, half-serious. “Some sort of genius meet-up?”

And they laugh, like he’s supposed to just _know_ they’re training to bring the house down, Vegas-style.

Lydia leans in close, eyes bright, and says, “Ever played Blackjack?” while he’s still a little stunned by the smell of her perfume.

She shuffles a deck in front of his face, keeps him pinned with her slow-sweet smile, right where she wants him, right where he shouldn’t be.

Like he said. It’s all Lydia’s fault.

\--

For all that Stiles considers Lydia the ringleader, knowing an Argent turns out to be a Big Deal.

Allison’s ancestors didn’t invent card counting, but they certainly perfected it. Allison herself is some kind of mathematical prodigy, the latest and greatest in a long line of card counters. Stiles had nursery rhymes and Barney as a kid. Allison had stacks of chips and Blackjack.

Problem is, she can’t play herself. The Argents are on the wrong side of famous in Vegas, and risking recognition so blatantly is just _asking_ for trouble.

So here they are, trying to learn in a few weeks what Allison has spent her childhood mastering.

“What’s the count?” she asks, flipping the final card.

Lydia gets this little crease between her brows when she’s concentrating. It’s almost enough to distract Stiles from the question.

“Plus 12,” she says finally, at the same time as Jackson says, “Plus 11.”

Allison is patient, and she is kind. She shuffles the cards for another go and manages to only look the slightest bit disappointed.

“It was…”

“Plus 13,” Stiles says.

“Plus 13,” Allison agrees.

The heat of Lydia’s smile is worth Jackson’s scowl.

\--

It’s basic math.

Every card has a value. Twos through sixes are worth plus one. Tens and face cards, minus one. Sevens, eights, and nines are neutral.

For example, if you end up with a number high on the positive side, there have been a lot of low cards. Which, of course, means there are a lot of high cards left in the deck. High cards put the game in the player’s favor.

The trick is to remember what you’ve seen, and to keep count.

It isn’t perfect, and it isn’t easy. You have to pay attention. You have to _focus_.

Stiles never could have done it, before.

But Vegas changes people.

\--

They create a system. A whole new language.

It’s simple.

It works.

\--

“The count?”

“Plus 12.”

“Codeword?”

“Eggs. 12 eggs in a carton.”

\--

“Plus 14. Ring.”

“Use it in a sentence.”

“With all this money we’re making, you can buy me a ring.”

Lydia smiles. “Oh, I can buy you a _thousand_.”

\--

Stiles’ dad calls every other weekend, like clockwork, and Stiles’ sole consolation is that what they’re doing _isn’t illegal_.

Frowned upon, at best. They’ll be undesirable customers at every casino in town, should they be suspected. Watched by every eye in the sky.

But they won’t be _arrested_ , and that’s how Stiles manages not to choke on his guilt whenever his father says, “You’re doing good, son,” in the gruff way of his, follows it up with, “I’m proud of you.”

His dad used to ask about all the jackpots and jingles he could hear in the background, but he doesn’t anymore.

\--

The first time they’re caught, Stiles has a panic attack, which renders him useless for the remainder of the night. Danny rubs his back and mutters about how screwed they are in equal measures. Jackson sits in stony silence, and Allison has her father on speed dial, ready to find the best lawyer their stolen money can afford.

It doesn’t surprise anyone when Lydia is the one that fixes it.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says, that first time, her ponytail tangled and her makeup smeared. It’s the first time Stiles has ever seen her with a hair out of place. Consequently, it’s the first he starts to think of her as human and not some untouchable goddess. “It’s not even illegal.”

Stiles doesn’t even realize they’re talking about sex until Allison scoffs, says, “Sleeping with someone in exchange for money is prostitution. And that _is_ illegal.” She sounds truly indignant for the first time about any of this, which is easy for _her_. Her family actively encourages this little pastime. Stiles’ dad would _kill_ him.

“Not in Nevada,” Danny answers in the way of someone who has seen the light at the end of the tunnel. “Nevada is the only state that allows it.”

“In _some_ places.” Allison’s gaze is sharp and her tone is cold, which surprises him. Honestly, at this point, Stiles has almost forgotten that any of them even have any true morals anymore. “Not in Las Vegas.”

And Lydia flips her wild hair and says, “ _Regardless_ ,” and that’s that.

\--

It’s almost always Lydia, because she’s beautiful and elegant and makes people fall for her by _breathing_. Sometimes, it’s Danny. Once, memorably, Jackson sleeps with a man named Matt and swears to kill them all in their sleep if they ever bring it up again.

Allison has never offered, and none of them have ever asked. Stiles hasn’t really offered, either, but… he thinks he might do it. If they ever need him to.

They don’t, until they do.

\--

To Derek Hale, they’re the worst of the worst.

Derek is the meanest pit boss in Vegas. He has arms muscled thick and a constant, brooding scowl. Rumor is he’s still bitter about the half a million dollars Kate Argent walked out with right under his nose.

Stiles wants to climb him like a tree.

So, the next time they’re caught in his casino, he takes a half-second to hope.

And then promptly feels foolish when Lydia smiles the smile he doesn’t remember falling out of love with and disappears for the night.

She doesn’t usually come back until morning.

She’s back by eleven.

Stiles hopes for a full minute this time. But, of course, Danny goes.

He gets it. Really, he does. Danny is seriously smoking. If Stiles ever went full-time gay, he’d probably be all over him.

But Stiles is into _Derek_ , damn it, and Danny getting first dibs just isn’t _fair_.

He’s still pouting about it when someone knocks on his door.

“Saddle up, cowboy,” Danny says, and laughs for a solid minute at the look on Stiles’ face.

\--

Derek is no less intimidating in the intimacy of his own room than he is in the chaos of the casino, which shouldn’t surprise Stiles, but it does.

“C’mere,” he says into the silence. Silence. Stiles has never been silent before. He thinks his tongue might be bleeding where he’s nearly bitten through it so he doesn’t say any of the things he’s thinking, like _You look like a Greek god_ , or _Please don’t hurt me_ , or _I want you so much_.

Derek isn’t that much taller than him, up close. He smells like Vegas. Like expensive liquor and cheap perfume and the heavy veil of smoke.

He holds Stiles like he _means_ it, and Stiles feels it like a punch to the gut.

“You told Danny no,” he whispers into the aching inch of space between them, understanding fully what he didn’t dare wish for. “You asked for me.”

Derek’s breath tickles at his throat where his pulse is thundering, high on the heat and the moment and the _possibility_.

“You _want_ me,” he says, and moans into the kiss he’s fully expecting.

\--

No matter how convinced Jackson is, Stiles actually _isn’t_ a virgin, but he blushes like one when Derek strips him naked.

It’s just… no one has really seen him like this, before. Spread out. Exposed. _Vulnerable_.

And the best part is, Derek treats Stiles like he wants to explore every inch of him with his _mouth_. He kisses his chin, his chest, the bend of his knee. It isn’t particularly _sexy_ , but Stiles’ toes curl under anyway.

He can’t help but arch into the hot press of Derek’s mouth when it finds the sharp bone of his hip. “Please,” he says.

And Derek says, “Patience.” He sucks a lazy bruise there, grins a lazy smile up the length Stiles’ body. “We’ve got time.”

But Stiles doesn’t just want time. He wants _forever_.

\--

Stiles screams into the meat of Derek's palm when he comes, which is great.

Derek gasps Stiles’ name against the hinge of his jaw when he comes, which is better.

\--

When it’s over, Stiles is on his back, panting. He stares at the ceiling because he doesn’t think he can bear to look at Derek’s face.

He wants this to be so much more than it is, and isn’t that the story of his _life_.

Derek has his arm slung around Stiles’ waist, mouth somewhere near his shoulder. Lydia would already be gone. Danny too, probably.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep in Derek Hale’s bed, except yeah, maybe he does.

\--

“You won’t stop counting,” Derek almost-asks the next morning, except it isn’t a question, so Stiles doesn’t answer.

They both know what he would say, anyway.

\--

He orders pancakes from room-service and laughs at the truly obscene amount of syrup Derek pours onto his stack, and then promptly _stops_ laughing when he leans in to let Stiles lick the sweetness from his lips.

\--

Kissing Derek is kind of like how it feels to win big.

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” he mumbles into Derek’s mouth, and laughs, and laughs, and _laughs_.


End file.
